Today’s guest post comes from Joanne in Big Lake

In the summer of 1979, I took a couple days off my factory job in Green Bay and ventured to Minneapolis with a friend of mine to register for classes – on paper – to start college at the University of MN that fall. When Welcome Week rolled around, my parents drove 6 hours with me and my stuff, unloaded the car, promptly turned around and made the lonely voyage home. I’m sure it was very difficult for them to leave me in a strange, big city on my own with nothing but trust and faith in me.

Fast forward a few years – I recently attended Orientation with my middle son, Ben, an extremely bright young man starting at the University of MN-Minneapolis this fall in the rigorous College of Science and Engineering. A full day and half of meetings and presentations all about the U, all the resources available, campus life, online registration, meeting with advisers, connecting with other students, etc. Going to college is now a family affair.

Parents of our generation consider it absolutely necessary to be with their child every step of the journey from choosing a college, registering for the best classes, getting the best professors, the best grades. It’s just the logical next step from being involved parents when we scheduled their play dates, registered for dance classes, attended their sports events, met with their teachers, drove them to all their necessary destinations and generally made sure they had a totally enriching and full childhood.

The U of MN has bent over backwards to help smooth the transition and identify resources for any struggle or challenge that comes up. The parent meetings at Orientation stressed how to cope with the student’s sudden coping with new life skills, handling their own schedule, making their appointments, making their own friends and dealing with triple the homework load without having the comfort of being at home. They even had psychologists on hand with advice for us on how to deal with the range of emotions everybody is feeling as the college student moves out, the homework demands of a Top Ten college, possible break-ups in relationships and being in a self-contained city of 50,000+ students. The U of MN even has it’s own police force – and gave a great presentation on the safety programs in place. From a parents’ perspective, it’s very comforting to know that my son won’t be just thrown in the deep end and expected to instantly swim. Yet there’s also enough slack to empower the students to get a chance to be on their own and make their own decisions.

Back in 1979, I was the quiet, shy, homebody least likely to leave. I remember feeling overwhelmed by the terror and the exhilaration of being on my own. I remember the pangs of sadness when I was homesick. My older outgoing sisters went out of state to college and were back in Green Bay within a year. But I finished and stayed. I look back and am still amazed that I did OK on my own here in Minneapolis.

When taking a risk, how much of a safety net do you need?

Today’s guest blog comes from Steve.

I look silly, actually. Every time I go to buy paper towels or toilet paper I stand in the supermarket aisle in confusion, staring at the brands.

“Okay, so who makes ‘Viva’? Kimberley Clark, it says here. But do I hate Kimberley Clark? Or is it Scott Paper I hate?”

Sooner or later I remember that I hate Scott Paper. In the early 1980s, Scott took a belligerent stand in defiance of federal pollution controls on paper plants. Scott went on my “corporate bad guys” list, and I stopped buying Scott Paper products. There is no reason for me to bury that old grudge now, for I have alternatives. I’m sure Scott Paper has fretted about their curiously lame sales in the Mac-Groveland area. Ha! I hope they understand that putting profits ahead of the environment caused me to boycott them.

The first time I boycotted a product because of higher values it was mighty easy. That first boycott happened was when progressives all over the country learned we should not buy grapes. In the late 1960s, migrant workers toiled in appalling conditions to harvest agricultural products. Cesar Chavez, a farm labor leader, eventually organized a nationwide boycott of grapes. My participation in the boycott didn’t bring the grape farm industry to its knees because I never bought grapes before the strike. Still, I felt virtuous as I bypassed grapes in my grocery store. And the good guys won that one.

Buying gas is more challenging. I used to buy all my gas with an Amoco credit card. Standard Oil was famous for placing gas stations on choice intersections with high traffic, so if you had a Standard Oil credit card you were never far from a gas station when your fuel meter was close to “Empty.” Because I traveled widely in unknown country when I was a freelance writer, it meant a lot to me that I could easily find gas when I needed it.

Then in March of 1989, the Exxon Valdez clobbered Bligh Reef in Prince William Sound. Legend has it that Captain Joe Hazelwood was sleeping off a bender at the time, but the truth is that the ship’s radar was broken and had not functioned for over a year. Crude oil flooded the Sound. The deadly toll on salmon, otters, water birds and seals was a ghastly spectacle on the evening news for months afterward.

I haven’t bought a drop of Amoco gas since that day. After drifting from brand to brand, I determined to buy my gas from a new company with a clean record. This company even featured a green corporate logo. My new gas supplier became BP. And you all know how that turned out.

I was anguished in 2010 when Target betrayed me. I had respected Target because it reinvests corporate profits in the local community. As someone who has worked for wolves, I appreciate Target’s contributions to the International Wolf Center. Everybody has to fill grocery carts with cheap stuff now and then, so we might as well buy it from a corporation that gives back to its local community.

Then we all learned, during the gubernatorial election of 2010, that Target’s corporate office donated money to a group that passed it on to Tom Emmer, a hard-right conservative and staunch opponent of gay rights. That was a dagger to my heart. Where was I supposed to buy cheap crap? K-Mart, the destroyer of small town America? K-Mart, the corporate abuser of employee rights? I just couldn’t!

Ultimately, I fear my values-based boycotts are foolish and self-indulgent. It is hard to find large corporations that behave well enough that they actually deserve our support. If we think a mega corporation is a good citizen, we probably haven’t done our homework. How many of us do our banking with companies that didn’t betray normal banking values a decade ago? Still, I cannot escape the compulsion to drag social ethics into my consumerism.

What do you boycott or support with your purchases?

Today’s guest post comes from Jacque.

During March I experienced a lost weekend. You know the deal—one of those “where did the time go and how did I get to Sunday evening without knowing it?” kind of experiences. It was not alcohol or sex, those common perpetrators of lost weekends. It was Ancestry.com. Now that defines my age, doesn’t it?

As a child I would ask my parents, usually after getting assigned a Family Tree project for Social Studies, “What are we?”

One or the other would say, “Oh, we’re not anything. A little Irish, a little Pennsyvania Dutch, a little Norwegian. Strattons were Quakers. But we’re not anything.”

This cleared a distinct blank spot in my self-definition. We are not anything. After my lost weekend, it turns out we are the Puritans and Pilgrims, the Quakers, and the pioneers like Laura Ingalls Wilder. Now there is a peg for a child to hang her hat. A Pioneer. Like Laura Ingalls. Cool. O! Pioneer?

This round of geneology started as my husband, Lou, the Norwegian-American from Decorah, Iowa, and I began planning OUR BIG VACATION to Norway which will tentatively occur mid-April to mid-May, 2014. Since reading If I Were Going that old Reader from the third grade, I have wanted to visit Norway. Lou’s people are meticulously tracked from the farm near Stavanger, Norway through England to the Big Boat to America in 1879. I am also 1/8th Norwegian through my father’s line, but we have lost track of our people.

I am starting to think they wanted to be lost.

My father’s parents died fairly young—Grandma at age 57 and Grandpa at age 69. Dad became ill and without memory due to MS before he had much opportunity to become interested in the stories or to pass them on. His Aunts and Cousins have provided much of this to us, but it turns out they are not terribly accurate reporters. When I tried to track these folks on Ancestry.com I found myself at 1858 in Hamar, Norway with Peter Grubhoel, age 14, and his parents John and Petra Amelia Grubhoel. Somehow, they transported themselves here, but the trail has vanished. Dad used to tell us that John and Petra stowed away young Peter on the boat. I thought that was a wild story. HMMMM. Maybe that did happen.

And then while I was examining pages of passenger lists written in spidery, indistinct hand, I got distracted….

Joseph Stratton and his family around 1804 were parked on the Frontier in Ohio Territory, right under Lake Erie. He was so busy fighting the wolves and Indians that were taking his cattle and horses that his family of many children were starving. Then after the last battle, he awoke on a day in which big decisions needed to be made about how to feed the family, to find the very Indians he was fighting left a deer hanging in the tree outside the cabin door. The family did not starve. I find that a good story.

I really got distracted by Grandma’s family, the Jacksons, her Mama’s family. Nicholas Jackson came over here in 1645 to Middlesex, Massechutsetts. Wow, who knew? Then his Great-Grandson, now from upper New York state, Colonel Jeremiah Jackson fought in the French Indian War of 1763 with distinction and apparently was known as real charismatic character. Like my own father. “The Colonel” returned for an encore in 1776 for the American Revolution with three sons. They all lived through the Revolution but one was mortally injured and finally died years later of his injuries. My ancestorm Matthew Jackson, and another brother returned for the war of 1811 for duties as piper and drummer. Then they got restless and started moving West following the Frontier.

And then I came to, and it was Sunday evening and Lou is saying “What are you doing down here? I haven’t seen you all weekend!” MPR was playing reruns of PHC and This American Life. I had fallen down the rabbit hole with Alice in Wonderland and it was time to come back.

Have you had a lost weekend?

Today’s guest post comes from tim.

Hats. I like hats. I always have. I like hats like Humphrey Bogart style hats. Fedoras. I like a hamburg, which is a bankers or a lawyers hat. I like the different style of western hats available. The way a cowboy wears his headgear tells you a lot about the character of the guy under the hat. That’s true of all hats – a bucket hat from Ireland or a newsboys cap, a racing style little cap or a kangol knitted golf cap. Today the return of the 60’s stingy brim fedora is all the rage with the kids but the panama hat and the Milan straw classics form the 50’s and 60’s is what I lean towards.

Dogs, I really like dogs. I always wanted one and when I was a kid. I have had one pretty much steady for the last 40 years but the old saying about if you feel like you want to get married just go find yourself a woman you hate and give her a house and most of your money and save all the other anxiety … does have a relative statement in dog world. Just go find a best friend who is going to die and rip your heart out out every 10 years. My lab basset and my wolf dog did my heart some serious damage when they died. Today I have a fistful of dog love running around and the knowledge the other shoe is going to drop is part of the deal but still you have to remember to make a point of enjoying the moment. With kids I tend to be a bit preachy and try to teach life lessons, some of it is acknowledged most is in one ear and out the other. Dogs get less preaching, more constructive direction and lots more toleration on not quite hitting desired goals. You have to catch a dog to give him hell, not so with kids. You need to praise a dog every time they get caught doing good. That may be what I’m missing with my kids.

Back in 1968 I went into Sears surplus and saw an item I will never forget. It was a band saw with a radio in it. It struck me as funny at the time and I started laughing in the store so hard I couldn’t catch my breath. I like a band saw and I like a radio but I had to question the guy who thought they should be packaged together. A band saw rarely gets used and while its not being used a radio sure would come in handy. But the notion of putting them together struck me as so unlikely I could not believe I saw it in real life production right in front of my face. When ever I think of it, I smile again.

This is also true of dogs and hats. I like dogs and I like hats but I don’t like dogs in hats. A simple search on google will show you there is a market for dog hats and on you tube the cats do not have an exclusive when it comes to odd posts. Dogs with hats have a spot in the bandwidth also. I hope it is not the first thing intelligent creatures from another planet see when they discover electronic communication from mother earth.

What really stupid earth guy stuff would you have a hard time explaining to creatures from another planet?

Today’s guest post is from Renee Boomgaarden.

I have an image problem in my family that I am at a loss to change. I am by nature bossy and controlling. My children learned early on that they ignored my advice and expectations at their peril, not only because they would be in trouble, but because I was usually right.

After my son left for college, I knew that he had to make his own decisions, and that I had to back off, only giving advice when he asked. It wasn’t a hard transition for me. He is a sensible guy. He married a sensible wife, and together they do well. It recently became apparent, however, that Son hasn’t caught on to my changed expectations in our relationship. I guess I was supposed to make a formal announcement that he could disagree with me without fear. This misunderstanding came to light last month in Cavendish, Prince Edward Island, on a tour of the house that Lucy Maud Montgomery used as model for Green Gables, home of Marilla Cuthbert, the ultimate old bossy pants.

The author of Anne of Green Gables grew up in Cavendish within walking distance of a lovely farm house with green trim. Relatives owned the house, and young Lucy played in the forest glades around the house, turning them in the Haunted Wood and Lover’s Lane in her books. The house has been lovingly maintained. We planned to spend a day in Cavendish exploring the Green Gables site and then hitting the beautiful pink beaches just north of town. I had heard a weather report that rain and clouds were going to move in to the area in the early afternoon. My son had his heart set on the beach. His wife and I were excited about both beach and Green Gables. Husband was happy with whatever we did.

After we had toured the house and the Haunted Wood, I innocently suggested to Son that perhaps we could go to the beach in case rain set in, and then walk the Lover’s Lane trail afterward. He agreed. No one else objected. We piled into the rental car, and then the trouble began. Son caught on that his wife was worried that we wouldn’t make it back to do the Lover’s Lane trail. He got upset at me because of my “insistence” that we go to the beach immediately, and husband started muttering about my “control” issues. Son angrily turned the car around and we went back to walk the trail. I kept saying that it really didn’t matter to me, I just didn’t want people to be disappointed in the beach if it rained. I realized, then, that Son still interpreted suggestions and ideas from me as direct orders, and he felt caught between obeying me and keeping his wife happy. I got really steamed that neither Son nor Husband would believe me, so I walked by myself on the trail while they walked on ahead.

That probably didn’t help the situation.

We managed the rest of the trip through PEI and Cape Breton Island with far less drama. We really did have a great trip, but I am still thinking my way through this image problem. At least now I have a handle on the source of the trouble.

What are some key differences between the way you see yourself, and the way others see you?

Today’s guest post comes from Anna.

I am spoiled. I live in a neighborhood where a library, a good grocery store, a decent bottle of wine and hand-roasted coffee are all within a block or two from my house. A little bit of nature is also nearby in the form of Minnehaha Creek. Folks on the block know each other, watch out for each other, and share in each other’s joys and triumphs. Kids sell lemonade to folks walking their dogs. I love my neighborhood, but I miss one thing from my old digs: art.

Or to be more precise, neighborhood art.

Neighborhood art is a wonderful thing. It’s art created by and for the folks who live in a small geographic area. Anyone can enjoy it, but it is created usually with a purpose – more than just having something visually appealing in a public place. It creates community, it brings neighbors together to talk where they might not have otherwise. The resulting work, whether it is a mural or art park or traveling piece, is almost secondary. It’s a potluck and neighborhood night out rolled together with some paint or sculpture. It’s more than public art, which can be anything from a Paul Granlund sculpture on Nicollet Mall to a commissioned mural on the side of a building – those are examples of private art displayed in a public place. True neighborhood art can be harder to find, but when you do find it, it can be awesome.

Fifteen years ago I wrote about the topic in a very earnest masters thesis (which I uncovered recently, which is the only reason I know the timing). Some of the art I wrote about is no longer around – like the mural on a sound wall that separated a now torn-down housing project from the freeway. Some of it has continued – like the fish mural (now slightly faded) on the NSP sub-station in my old neighborhood. The first mural was painted by folks who lived in the housing project along with the guidance and help of professional artists; they worked together to find symbols and imagery that reflected that community and what they hoped it could be. The NSP aquarium fish, well, that was because a couple of folks thought it would be fun to turn the plain, unadorned building into something a little silly, something colorful, something that could be come a rallying point for the neighborhood. An annual fish fry happened in the park kitty-corner from the NSP station – a gathering of the neighborhood with food and music and often a fish parade because a community got together and created something silly and neighborly. And that’s the thing with neighborhood art – some of it “sticks” and some of it doesn’t. Neighborhoods change, so does the art.

Driving from my neighborhood to my daughter’s piano lesson, I drive past some whimsical wraps over traffic light switch boxes. They start and end at the boundaries of a neighborhood and have images that reflect neat stuff happening there (huge onions from the local farmer’s market and a kid riding a trike in the snow are two of my favorites). A bit east of me is a big bronze rabbit that seems to call out for clover necklaces, giant red bows at Christmas and at least once an Easter bonnet. The bunny begs to be climbed on – and climbed on he (she?) is. Neither are in my neighborhood, but I love them. Other neighborhoods’ art, out where I can appreciate it.

My neighborhood doesn’t have much in the way of art. A commissioned mural, some one-off yarn-bombings, but not bring-the-neighbors-together-to-create-it art. I miss that.

What art do you see near you? What might you create?